In Which Pickled Eggs Are Involved
by thehappyone
Summary: "Can you explain to me again how exactly you managed to ruin my date, aggravate that nice girl to the point of emptying a two-liter jar of pickled eggs over your fat head, and get both of us kicked out of one of the only decent pub in this part of London for setting off a baking-soda-and-vinegar reaction, all in the time that I was in the loo?" Implied Johnlock in the end. Enjoy!


**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, or anything else in the Sherlock universe. If I did, do you really think I'd be writing fanfiction? Melanie Cooper is an original character, though, and any similarities to any person, fictional or real, are completely and entirely coincidental. **

**Sorry I haven't updated in a while. I've been busy with school and other...stuff. But it's spring break now, so I'll have loads more time to write and hopefully update some other stuff, too. :) Please read and enjoy! Reviews are love (especially pointers on British-ness in general. I'm American, so I probably got a lot of the vernacular wrong, sorry.) Favorites are love as well! 3 Rated T because I wasn't sure about the references to being in a bar and alcohol and stuff. Okay, I'll stop now and let you read. :)**

* * *

"Sorry, I've just got to head to the loo for a minute, it won't take long."

Melanie Cooper gave the nice doctor she had just been chatting with her brightest smile and waved him away from the bar. "No, no, it's fine - John, right?"

"Watson, yep. I'll be back in a few."

"Take your time." She swiveled her stool forwards again, rummaging around in her new bag for her phone and tapping out a text with practiced fingers. She hadn't had this much luck recently, especially not on nights out on her own like this, and to meet such a nice man so early on was a pleasant surprise. Army doctor, apparently, returned home from Afghanistan just over a year ago, and working at a local hospital. Single, too, although he was sharing a flat with a friend - a scientist, or a detective, or something. The pub had been pretty loud - it was Saturday night, after all - so she hadn't been able to hear quite correctly.

She was able to hear, however, the quiet rumble of a voice that sounded almost directly behind her ear and scared her so badly she nearly jumped a foot in the air.

"Eighty-one percent."

The voice was so deep that if it hadn't been so close she might have missed it among the sharp jabberings of the crowd about her. Melanie shuddered, dropping her phone in surprise before whirling around.

"Ex - Excuse me?"

"Eighty-one percent," the voice repeated, and Melanie peered down from her stool and saw that the bass rumble was coming from a man currently bending down to pick up her phone rather than a demon from the depths of the earth. He straightened, twiddling her mobile idly before fixing her with a piercing, icy-blue stare. "Or weren't you listening?"

"Um." Melanie blinked helplessly. "I don't understand-"

"No, of course you don't," the stranger sighed exasperatedly. He mentioned to the chair that John had just left. "May I?"

"Actually, there's someone-"

"Excellent." There was a fluid stride and a swish of a long, dark coat, and suddenly the man was perched next to her, all dark curls and cheekbones, sweeping her up and down with unnaturally light blue eyes. Melanie shifted uncomfortably in her chair, silently willing John to return and save her the agony of the vampiric creeper who had, apparently, selected her as his next victim. _Oh, God, what if he's a murderer?_

"I'm not a murderer," the creeper announced suddenly. Melanie hastily scooted her barstool back away from him, wincing at the obvious screech. The man grinned like a shark. "Sherlock Holmes," he said, sticking out a pale hand and looking amused when Melanie stared warily at it. "You must be Melanie Cooper."

"How do you know my name?"

"Oh, I know lots of things."

Melanie shuddered internally at the dark tone, but stuck out her chin defiantly. _Murderer or not, there's no way a creeper like this guy is going to ruin my night. _"Sorry, what do you mean by eighty-one percent?" She hoped her voice wasn't as wobbly as she thought it was.

"The amount of people who lie about themselves on online dating websites," he said nonchalantly, peering into John's glass and sniffing haughtily at the drops inside. "Granted, we're not on the Internet per se, but a crowded pub in the middle of London is close enough, don't you think?"

"Hold on." Melanie crinkled her nose and gave the man a sideways stare. "Are you suggesting that that doctor - John - he's not what he says he is?"

"Oh, no, John's being perfectly honest." Sherlock plunged an arm suddenly into the depths of his midnight coat, rummaging around for a few seconds before extracting a tiny bottle of clear liquid with a worn cork stopper. He placed it on the table with a grand finality, tracing the top with one spidery finger before popping it off and allowing a few crystalline drops to fall into John's almost-empty glass. "You, on the other hand, are not."

She scoffed. "Excuse me?" It was one thing for a weirdo like this guy to come up and interrupt her night out, but it was certainly another to deliver an insult straight to her face. "I'm being perfectly honest, and it's rather rude-"

"No, don't start." He reached across the bar for a toothpick and stirred the concoction until it began to fizz rather ominously.

"You can't just -"

"I said, don't start. I don't have time for your mindless drivel." He rolled his eyes and turned back to the bubbling mixture. "Neutralization reaction," he muttered under his breath, so quietly that Melanie almost toppled off her chair leaning forward to catch the words. "Sodium bicarbonate and, obviously, acetic acid. Carbonization. I wouldn't drink that if I were you," he said suddenly, pointing to Melanie's drink. "Alcohol's so old, it's turned to vinegar."

"Right, thanks for that," she said briskly. "The warning doesn't make up for the ridiculous accusation, though."

"Not ridiculous if it's true." He crossed his arms and laid his head down on the table, nose to the glass, staring into the fizzing tumbler as if it was a crystal ball.

"I'm _not_ lying."

His eyes flickered over her quickly, jumping from the shiny barrettes in her hair down to the new stilettos that she had bought just the other day. An unimpressed frown crossed his face as he turned back to the experiment. "No, you're a liar," he said airily. "Worse than that, actually. It's obvious."

"First of all, that's not true." Melanie retorted. "And second of all, even if I was a liar - which I'm not - how could you possibly know that? You've known me for all of five minutes."

Sherlock Holmes blinked indignantly and sneered. "Because I'm clever. Unlike the rest of the bipedal buffoons staggering about this earth, I do not merely see. I _observe._"

Melanie scoffed. "All right then, _Mister Sherlock Holmes_. If you're so very smart," - she stood up and poked him in the chest - "then prove it."

She could have sworn she saw a regal smirk, an almost pitying shake of the head - and suddenly he was drawing himself up, towering over her, piercing her with two terrifyingly aquamarine eyes. And then he was ripping her apart.

"Thirty-five years old," he began - and that was all she was able to hear clearly before the words came spouting out of his mouth so fast that she had to strain her ears to keep up. "Waitress at a fish-and-chips stand down by the sea, probably Ramsgate, judging by the oil stains on your palm, the coarseness of your hair - from the sea salt, of course - and the frankly alarming odor of cod that seems to emanate from your every pore. Ever heard of deodorant? Not very good pay, of course it's not, it's a chip stand, but surprisingly, you're wearing rather high-end clothing. Sequined dress from Prada, you can see it from the tag that you've so cleverly left on the dress to show off your expensive taste. Diamonds on your stilettos, Louis Vuitton bag as well, mascara and lipstick all very thick and vibrant. Starlet quality."

"Thank you-" she managed to interject surprisedly as he took a breath, but then he was off and running again.

"Oh, no, that wasn't a compliment, don't flatter yourself, because you see, it's all so obviously fake. There's clear stitches on the back of the dress, for one - the tag's been ripped off of some other article and resewed onto yours to make it look brand name. The diamonds on the shoes aren't real - they're scuffed, and nothing can scratch a real diamond. The bag - I'm good enough to recognize a fake when I see one, especially one that low-caliber - and the makeup is smearing rather alarmingly, indicating its cheapness, despite the hours you've spent attempting to make it it look good. It looks almost professionally done, though - takes a master to scrape up a get-together like this on such a low budget - so clearly you've done this a lot. Spending most of your pay on fancy clothing and makeup, working during the day and going out frequently at night - you hate your job, then, you want to move up, be a little more high-end, but you can't unless you have the money to do so. So, you try and pick up anyone who looks wealthy, get in a comfy little relationship, squeeze the juice out of anyone who has a good job that can pay for your expensive tastes."

His lip curled in harsh disgust. "Doctors, for one. Sweet doctors, trusting doctors. Doctors like John Watson."

She sputtered. "I don't know what you're implying -"

"But it doesn't work all the time, does it?" he continued, sweeping along. "Your little facade, your little game. Eventually, they all figure it out - like your ex-husband, for one, going by the thick pale stripe around your ring finger where you've recently removed a rather large, costly ring."

Melanie shoved her hands behind her back, flushing red in vain.

"Your terrible posture - hunched over the entire time, shoulders rounded, arms held at your sides - implies that your sleeping arrangements have been less than adequate. An inexpensive mattress, a floor of some sort. Rather than investing in a decent apartment, a good bed, you've spent it all on clothes and makeup, on cheap drinks at several bars. A laptop, too. The circles under your eyes, your posture, the dexterity with which you text - you're rather computer savvy, aren't you? A hacker, must have studied computer science during university before you obviously dropped out and had to take a job at a chip stand to survive. You're full of yourself, you think you're so smart, that you deserve so much more than that waitress gig. You feel no guilt, then, when you steal from others who you've picked up in the night. And when they're too smart, it's okay, because you can still get something out of them using your technological skills. A credit card number, for example, is all a good hacker needs to break into someone's bank account and leave a nice little dent behind."

There was a sweep of dark cloth, and Sherlock was twirling Melanie's mauve phone in his spindly fingers, tapping away furiously before flashing the screen at her to display the clear picture of John Watson's credit card on the camera roll.

"Snapped when he left it on the table to pay for the drinks, I presume," the man said darkly. "Really, you should hold onto your phone more tightly. If someone came up from behind and _startled you with their deep voice_-" he grinned wickedly - "It would be so easy for them to just pick your mobile up and walk off when you dropped it in surprise, wouldn't it?"

Melanie gaped, spluttering indignantly. "That's not-"

"Fair?" He adjusted his cerulean scarf primly and sniffed. "No, I suppose it's not, but the police don't care about fair, and neither do I." He leaned ominously down. "So, unless you'd like the whole of Scotland Yard involved in your messy little scheme, you'll leave this cheap excuse for a cellphone with me, walk out that door, and forget that nice doctor you met tonight and any credit card numbers associated with him."

"And if I don't?"

She regretted the words almost as soon as they left her mouth.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, seemed to think a moment, and then nodded at the corner of the room to where a security camera was angled directly at the two of them. She followed his line of sight with growing horror. "Well, you see, Miss Cooper," he said, lowering his voice to an sarcastic whisper, "I have a few friends in high places, as it may be. Friends who occupy minor positions in the British government, for instance, and who would be very interested in meeting you and discussing exactly how you seem to acquire such large sums of money working as a fish-and-chips waitress - and as such a mediocre one, at that."

A tomato-red blush crossed Melanie's face, and she hesitated for only a split second before glancing at the camera. "Keep it," she muttered sullenly, motioning blandly to the phone dwarfed in the man's hands.

"Ah, very good choice," he said appraisingly. "You'll be leaving now, I presume - though you should probably go before John returns. I might accidentally leak the details of our lovely conversation to my government friend."

"Don't tell me what to do." She spat the words venomously, snatching up her bag and haughtily grabbing one of the fizzing drinks on the bar. _No sense in leaving empty-handed. _

He eyed her glass. "Actually, I wouldn't-"

"Didn't you hear me, you freak?" Melanie screeched. Several patrons jumped in their seats, craning their necks around to see what all the fuss was about. "I said, don't _tell _me what to do!" She downed the glass in one gulp.

And immediately sprayed half of it across the tabletop, coughing and spluttering and causing the nearest customers and the unfortunate bartender to jerk away.

"I did warn you," came the vindictive bass rumble from next to her ear. "Acetic acid and sodium bicarbonate in a neutralization reaction - or, in terms you'll understand, liquefied baking soda and alcohol so old it's been vinegarized, making a bubbly but frankly disgusting drink. Next time, make sure you choose a more decent bar to frequent." He smirked into the collar of his coat. "And make sure you're actually drinking out of your own glass."

Melanie stormed out of the bar, carbonated froth dripping down her blasted dress - but not before she made sure that the entire jar of pickled eggs behind the counter had been emptied quite thoroughly onto Sherlock Holmes's smug, swollen head.

* * *

John hailed a passing cab before turning curtly to Sherlock and eyeing his dripping coat. He pressed his lips together in a firmly disapproving line. "Right," he finally said.

"Peng's or Mr. Chou's?" Sherlock asked airily, sweeping past him into the cab and dropping haughtily into the back of the cab as regally as he could with hardboiled egg sliding down his face. There was a crunch of eggshells, and the cabbie gave them a furious glare that John took to mean _you're paying for any damage this egg-covered maniac does to my seats_.

John sighed and dropped into the backseat beside him. "Can you explain to me again how exactly you managed to ruin my date, aggravate that nice girl to the point of emptying a two-liter jar of pickled eggs over your fat head, and get both of us kicked out of one of the only decent pub in this part of London for setting off a baking-soda-and-vinegar reaction, all in the time that I was in the loo?"

"Since you're obviously ignoring my question, I'll suggest Peng's, since it's about two miles closer and I'm rather in the mood for vegetable chow mein," Sherlock snapped as the cab began to rattle down the street. "And it most definitely was not a decent pub, John," he grumbled. "Surely you could see that from the speed of the neutralization reaction, for one. They were selling _vinegar_, not alcohol."

"Actually, I was thinking Mr. Chou's," John retorted, tapping the cabbie on the shoulder and getting an exasperated eye-roll and a rather aggressive U-turn in response. "And you know," John continued, giving his flatmate a sideways glance, "I was actually wondering something else. As I remember it, you said that you were going to spend tonight back at the flat working on that case with the disappearing blue box and the man with the bow tie, weren't you?"

"Open and shut case. Transparent."

"So you decided to follow me to the pub and ruin my night out."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably against the window, dark curls pressed up against the glass. "She wasn't your type."

John sighed exasperatedly, throwing up his hands. "Sherlock, you can't just follow me on dates to determine my _type-"_

"But she did like your credit card." Sherlock stated, drawing a hideously mauve camera phone out of his infinitely deep pocket and handing it to John. He peered at the brightly lit screen and blinked at the slightly unfocused photograph it featured. A photo of a credit card. His credit card, in fact. _Oh. _

"That's-" John scratched his head awkwardly. "That would have been unfortunate."

"Yes."

There was a moment of silence where John pressed his lips together and tried to decide between holding the sullen grudge and bursting into laughter.

He would not laugh. He would not laugh. He would not-

Damn.

The snickers erupted from John before he could clamp a hand over his traitor of a mouth. Arching an eyebrow, Sherlock eyed warily. "What? What's so funny?"

"The one time-" John grinned. "God, Sherlock. The one time someone tries to steal my credit card, and they get stuck having to deal with you." He shook his head, eyes dancing. "I feel bad for that poor girl. Although she did get you back for whatever you must have said. And you got yours for mouthing off, too."

"What do you mean, _mouthing off_?"

"Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective, with egg on his face. Literally." Sherlock's mouth twisted petulantly and he turned back to the window with a _humph_, pieces of hardboiled egg sliding from his hair onto the seat. Which really only made John chuckle that much more. _He really is just a massive five-year-old._

"Still," he sighed, leaning back on the seat with a grin, "you've got to admit this is the worst luck I've had so far. First date in three months, and it ends with her trying to steal my credit card number. Maybe I'm just un-date-able." he finished thoughtfully.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry," smirked Sherlock, taking the phone back and deftly tossing it from hand to hand. "You'll meet a nice girl up, have a nice spring wedding, move up to the country, have a few dozen children and name them all Hamish or something ridiculous like that."

A scoff from John. "At this rate, they're all going to be named Hamish Watson-Holmes. Every date I go on, I somehow end up with you."

Sherlock was too engrossed in the phone to respond. He looked ridiculous -fingers a pale blur over the keyboard, eyes goggling back and forth across the LED screen, egg juice dripping steadily from his soaked mop of hair and ruining the cab seats. So ridiculous, in fact, that John was too busy laughing silently at his flatmate's appearance to notice the small smile tugging at the corners of Sherlock's mouth.

_Hamish Watson-Holmes. _Sherlock tentatively rolled the name around in his head before filing it away, hiding it in a special warm place in his mind palace to mull over later. _Hm. You know, it's got a ring to it._


End file.
